


Noel

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and two gifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noel

"Mrs. Hughes, have you seen my pen?"

She glances up, gives him her most innocent look. "I haven't, Mr. Carson, no. You've probably just misplaced it, it'll turn up." He huffs, goes back into his office. Writes with one of the standard inferior pens.

It'll turn up, yes, because she has it secreted in her handbag. Took it to the stationer this morning to match the set of nibs she's going to buy him, the beautiful set of calligraphic tips that will let him write with the utmost of pleasure, with his beautiful flawless script in any thickness he likes, any number of lovely flourishes. She turns pink with happiness. She finally found the perfect gift for him after looking over what seemed to be hundreds of awful choices. Ties, wines, cuff links. All wrong. But these pen tips, they were perfectly right. Sterling silver, beautifully crafted, perfect for the luxurious, heavy fountain pen that he treasured above all things, a gift from His Lordship on one particularly extravagant Christmas. He never lets it from his sight; she had to do a fair amount of sneaking to slip it out of his office without him noticing.

The next morning, she presents herself at the shop to pay for the purchase and she's staggered at the final amount. Aghast at the cost -- she had expected a fair amount, but as the stationer apologetically explains, silver is in short supply and it had come to more than even he had expected. She curls her fingers in frustration; she doesn't have nearly enough for pay for it. Not even close, it would take her weeks of saving to afford it, if not months.

"I could take a trade, perhaps? If you had some jewelry or perhaps some good Indian silk you're no longer in need of…?" The little old gentleman doesn't sound hopeful, but he wants to help, hates to see the discouragement in her eyes. She looks down, bites her lip. She has only one piece of proper jewelry, the little ruby ring she wears on her right hand. It had belonged to her mother, the only thing of value her mother had owned besides her silver necklace, which had gone to Glenna. One of the stones is missing, a loss that she grieved for a long time. Her lips thin. Her father had probably removed it, pawned it for a drink or three. Elsie fidgets, twists the thin gold band around and around on her finger. She wants to get him this gift so badly, but — no. She does, and she's not one for sentiment, and he will get far more enjoyment out of those pen tips than this ring has ever given her. Decisively, she pulls the ring off, hands it across the counter. The man examines it, tilts his head, agrees that it's worth a good price, he's willing to make the trade. He disappears into the back room to wrap the set of tips in festive paper, in ribbons, and she fights back tears.

She'll miss it, she will, there's no use in denying that. But it's all right, truly it is. She'll take comfort in giving him this, something he'd never get for himself, something no one else would think to get him. She takes the parcel and goes home to Downton. Replaces his pen on his blotter without a sound.

He sits in his office the next evening and opens the small velvet box, studies the contents. It's flawless, and the perfect size, and will fill that sad little gap in her ring, the ring she never takes off, the ring she has never once removed to his knowledge. It has hurt his heart to see that missing stone for years, he has silently wondered how it had gotten lost, how such a well-set gem would have simply disappeared. It would have had to be removed with intent, he thinks, but he has never questioned her. There's something painful there, he's sure of it, and it's not his place to ask. It is his place, however, to fill that space if he can.

The ruby had cost more than he had estimated, far more, but he had paid for it. Had given the cash he had and, painfully, with a sharp, hard pang, had handed his beloved fountain pen across the till to the jeweler. It was a beautiful thing, made of fine teak with beautiful golden filigree carvings, an exquisite thing that had made writing a high fine art. It will be difficult to adjust to the everyday cheap black pens, but he'll adjust. It meant too much to him that she have this gift, that her ring be complete again on her hand. That she would be able to wear her modest jewel without sadness, without regret. He closes the box. It is worth the loss, and twice that again.

Late Christmas evening they finally can retire to her parlor together to take a glass of wine, to exchange their presents as they always do, away from the prying eyes of the family, the other servants. It's their own little holiday tradition and both of them are filled with warm expectation, happy anticipation tinged with a bittersweet taste. Very properly, as they always do, they sit across from one another, solemnly wish each other a very happy Christmas, and push prettily wrapped packages across the table. They thank each other before any bows are even pulled, any paper torn. As always.

She's slowly pulling the golden gilt ribbon from the little square parcel but her gaze is fixed on his face; she is smiling, unconcerned with what is in her own package, eager to see his eyes light up. He opens the soft leather case and lets out a sudden rough laugh, closes his eyes.

 _He doesn't like it_ , she thinks, hurt, bewildered. Her hands continue their own mechanical movements. She snaps open the small box and gazes down at the sparkling gem mounted carefully on velvet, beautifully presented, awaiting a setting. Her mouth opens and she cries out in frustration before she can stop herself.

 _She doesn't like it_ , he thinks, and he is saddened, disappointed.

"I thought — " They both begin, stop, look at the other. He presses his lips together, nods for her to continue.

She shakes her head a little, stifles the sob that is rising in her throat. "I thought you'd like them — for your pen; I — and this is beautiful, it's just that —" A little hysterical laugh joins the thickening of tears in her voice and she looks away, wills herself not to cry.

He looks at her helplessly. "I like them very much — very, very much, it's only that — well — I don't have my pen anymore. I — " He rubs the bridge of his nose. "I sold it to get the ruby for your ring. Which I thought was the right thing to do, but — "

She looks up and her mouth drops open, she stares at him. "You sold it. To get my — you sold it." He nods, shrugs. She laughs now, curls into the chair, cups the little jewel box to her breasts. She laughs and laughs.

"Mr. Carson — it's a beautiful jewel, the nicest I've ever had. But, well, I — well. I sold my ring, to get your pen tips."

He looks at her in disbelief, looks down at the gift in his hands. "But — that was your mother's ring. You sold your — Mrs. Hughes, I would never have expected you — that was your mother's ring." She hums her agreement, nods, keeps the ruby in its box clasped warmly to her heart.

Carson speaks slowly, carefully. "We could get your ring back, I'm sure we could; we could go down that first thing in the morning —" She is shaking her head; her eyes are shining, bright, filled with joy.

"No. No, I don't want it back. I will get another ring someday, and I will have this put in that one. I — no, I want you to have those. Should — I'm sorry, you likely want your beautiful pen back, I'm being selfish." She extends the jewel box to him reluctantly, sadly.

He is warm, loose in his body, and she is so very lovely in the firelight. He strokes the case of his pen tips, shakes his head gently, pushes her hand back toward her, but holds it, his fingers wrapped around her wrist gently. "No. No, I can use any pen. Any pen will do with these, it's the tips that do all of the work anyway. And — Mrs. Hughes? You may well have another ring to put that in. I hope one day soon."

She smiles at him from under her lashes, presses the box to her lips. Like every other Christmas, he pours the wine.


End file.
